With feigned solace ease a true felt woe; Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace, Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath, I long to kiss the image of my death. This sonnet seems to have been suggested by Sir Phillip Sidney's on the same subject. The third line of Drummond's sonnet is like the fourth of Sidney's. "Come Sleep-O Sleep, the certain knot of peace! The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, Sir Philip Sidney. Mr. Cunningham's new edition of Drummond's Poems is enriched with several of his sonnets never before published, procured from the Antiquarian Society of Edinburgh, and illustrated with notes by David Laing. THE DESERTED MAID. SHE once was beautiful-but secret shame, Have wrought a fearful change! The ceaseless flow And made her heart a ruin. Still the flame Of quenchless passion lights her pallid brow She haunts the scenes where first the false youth came TO CALUMNY. Оn, hideous Fiend! at whose malignant breath Dread minister of sorrow and dismay ! Is welcome as the presence of a friend To those sad hearts thy tortures lacerate !--- At their decree thy willing fingers rend The chords of Love, or tear the wreath of Fame. In proud defiance to the battle's brunt, HOME-YEARNINGS. [WRITTEN IN INDIA, IN SICKNESS AND AFFLICTION.] I. In every change of fortune or of clime, In every stage of man's uncertain lot, The more endeared by distance and by time, Affection's sacred home is unforgot. There lives the spell that wakes the sweetest tear In feeling's eye, and cheers the troubled brow; There dwells each joy the tender heart holds dear; There ties are formed that none may disavow ;And cold is he to nature's finer sway, Who doomed to wander, weeps not on his way! II. From that dear circle peace will never fly, The restless throng that haunt ambition's shrine, 111. Queen of the Nations! Island of the brave! Home of my youth! and idol of my heart! Though far beyond the broad Atlantic wave, My boundless love shall but with life depart. Yet farewell all that brightens and endears! These withered plains but wake my ceaseless tears; IV. Star of the wanderer's soul! Unrivalled Land! Hallowed by many a dream of days gone by! Though distant far, thy charms my thoughts command, And gleam on fancy's sad reverted eye. And though no more my weary feet may stray O'er thy green hills, or down each flowery vale, Where rippling streams beneath the bright sun play, And throw their gladdening music on the gale, There are fond hopes that will not all depart, 'Till Death's cold fingers tear them from the heart! V. Vain, faithless visions! 'Mid each earthly ill, Oh! cease to mock the tempest of despair! Scourge of the clime! pale Sickness holds her sway, And bids my lacerated heart prepare To meet in foreign lands the wanderer's doom- SONNET-LIFE. OH! what a fearful mystery is life When dark unuttered thoughts to bliss succeed! I dare not look before me nor behind, SONNET*. WELL may that gentle Mother's heart be proud, How little for all other wealth or weal Her heart need sigh while richly thus endowed. Let but the sun of joy serenely shine On those sweet human flowers, and Fortune's brow May change unheeded-she can ne'er repine ; While thus their bright eyes gleam, their fresh cheeks glow, Her bliss maternal seemeth half-divine The holiest that a mortal breast may know! Written to illustrate an engraving in the Bengal Annual of a mother surrounded by her children. |